Just Keep Going When You Go Too Far

Sometimes I really don't know how to use my words. When that happens I try using paints... and sometimes that doesn't quite work, either.

You know those times when you have a great idea, or a great image in your mind, and when you try to bring it to fruition it looks like trash in a blender? Yup, that's what happened when I tried to paint some apple blossoms. Seriously you guys, it was bad. I was going to cover the canvas with several coats of gesso and pretend nothing ever happened, but for some reason I left the painting leaning on my bedroom wall for several weeks instead. Finally, I ignored my plan to white-wash the thing and I started painting and drawing a new image over the old one. I ended up with what you see above: two close figures, evidence of a whole lot of water, something physical, something reminiscent of the psyche, and chaos mingled with intention. I like it.

I think my painting problems started when I decided to paint some blossoms just because they were bound to be pretty and accessible, instead of painting something real-- that is, something that I felt actually mattered, even if I couldn't say why. Sure, its nice to make things solely for another person's enjoyment, but if we don't put a part of ourselves into what we are creating it tends to come across as a bit fake and unappealing.

This has been a nice reminder to try to stay real, even if I don't feel sure of what that means. A few years ago a professor at Whitman College reminded me that sometimes we don't know what we are really painting about until months or years later. This concept stuck with me, and several times since I've noticed how true it can be. Several weeks ago I woke up and the first thing I saw was a figural painting I'd made about six months earlier. When I first started the painting I thought the face I'd chosen for the figure was random and entirely a figment of my imagination, resembling no-one in particular. When I woke up on that November morning six months later I realized that the face strongly resembled a friend of mine who had been on my mind quite a bit at the time the painting was made. It took a while, but I finally know what the painting is about. I am also reminded that, for me at least, there is more value in trying to work on a problem or painting that feels new and genuine, and then stuttering when someone asks for an explanation, than trying to feed the world an outdated idea that comes with a beautiful explanation but doesn't apply to much. Yay for truth, whatever that is!

Should I? Or Shouldn't I? I Should.

My little self-involved rant

Makeup in the style of Roy Lichtenstein.
One of those nights when you just have to scribble on your face.

The truth is, I've always wanted to be an artist. Approximately twenty years ago I asked myself what I wanted to be when I grew up. I did it because everyone else was doing it. It was all the rage. My initial reaction was to wonder if it wasn't entirely too early to be planning out my life at the tender age of five, but all of my peers seemed to have well thought-out answers organized into pitches they could present at the drop of a hat, complete with backup career plan numbers two and three. The pressure was on. I soon found myself crawling through my brain trying to mine some golden vein of bombastic genius. What a waste of time. Though the world was my oyster, I decided to base my decision on what I could actually imagine myself doing for the rest of my life and never getting tired of. As it turned out, no matter what other things I was interested in doing, I really just wanted to paint.

Fast-forward fifteen years and I declared myself an art major despite my inarguably nerdy degree of interest in botany and psychology. In the years since deciding to major in art, doing so, and finding myself hurled into the "real" world where there are no more prerequisites, four-year plans, and pre-assigned advisors, I was reminded all too often that it is not easy to be an artist. Especially if you are female. Especially if you are not caucasian. I've been informed that most successful artists are white men. Wonderful! Challenge accepted.  

Whenever I've asked myself if I should actually try to be an artist, whether full time or on the side, or if I am completely off my rocker because I chose that for a bachelor's degree, these little seeds of doubt have assisted me in flip-flopping more times that I'd like to admit. I've heard before that this and that is more difficult for women and this and that is less attainable for the melanin rich. The statistics are probably impressive and daunting. If I want to believe that trends from the past perfectly exemplify the direction that my future is allowed to take, I might as well put my face on the floor and give up now. 

Here's the thing: once I actually started using my brain and I tried to think of individual people who have been unsupportive of me, advising me to quit painting and drawing, I came up with no one. In fact, I'm pretty sure I've been the most unsupportive supporter out of everyone. What is that all about? I really don't know how I didn't see it sooner. I don't even know these people who say that my chances are slim. Everyone I've actually talked to has told me to go for it, even when it hasn't been what I expected to hear. So... I guess I'd better do that. Especially if my five-year-old self already knew how much my twenty-four-year-old-self would still love painting. I'd rather try and fail than never try and never know. You know?